Because I said so.

The other day after a long night and morning deluged with the onslaught of mommymommymommy and why? why? why? I finally resorted to, “because I said so.”

This immediately garnered the ugly look of a man with his daughter in a nearby grocery cart.

There’s nothing to be said, such as the apologetic laugh, “I hate to resort saying that.” I mean, I could. Right? If I was a little more social, a little more invested in other people, I could have smiled. But really, I do hate to say because-I-said-so and rarely say it. I enjoy going through the elaborations behind “because” realizing, of course, that my son, who is two and half rarely follows any of it. Mostly he likes to hear me talk, and especially, I suspect, to reiterate the same points over and over again. Such as “why daddy work” to which he has memorized the answer (“Money. Money–Cho-cho. Money–eat. Money–home. Money-car.”). Really, what he wants me to do is get him started, to give him a receptacle for his answer. Why and it’s many answers functions like a story that we read over and over and over again.

So why. Why a blog.

Because I’m out of other ideas. I’ve failed at any number of things, the things on which my pride rested, the things on which I’d pinned an identity, the identity I wanted to have.

What I have instead for a life is not what I planned, not, in most cases, what I intentionally sought out. But not bad–I have, in many, many ways a better life than I wanted, richer experiences than I would have chosen had I written out my plan for my life at 13, 17, 20, 25. Even me at 30-31 would not have predicted this particular life.

I know enough at this point to be glad that I’m alive. Be glad that all the ways in which I could have royally fucked myself (not to mention kill myself) did not pan out.

But there’s a loneliness, a sadness, a frustration at all the things which go unsaid, undone. For a while, one of my only outlets was a writing group. And now I think I’ve leaving them. I might still go back–I’ll be out of town for six months, so I’ll have plenty of time to change my mind. But I don’t know how to mend that heartbrokenness that they are not more of what I wanted. And not just wanted, but needed.

They are, of course, perfectly fine in and of themselves and as a group. But for the lack in me that they cannot fill, I cannot forgive them. More on this tomorrow.


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